


in pursuit of (---)

by pennyofthewild



Series: a series of serendipities [2]
Category: Free!
Genre: F/M, M/M, Olympian!Rin, illustrator!haruka, writer!sousuke, written for souharu week on tumblr!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-05
Updated: 2014-12-05
Packaged: 2018-02-28 06:44:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2722616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pennyofthewild/pseuds/pennyofthewild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[“Hey, Sousuke,” Rin calls as Sousuke is closing the door, “who’re you gonna have illustrate your story?”]</p>
            </blockquote>





	in pursuit of (---)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [extraordinary](https://archiveofourown.org/users/extraordinary/gifts), [Hinalilly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hinalilly/gifts).



> credits to matsuoka-lin and hinalilly for the inspiration behind this fic ^^  
> i'm sorry for everyone who comes to read my fics expecting quality, so so sorry /lies down  
> [[listen]](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xJhZnfke9f0)

_Once upon a time there was a little boy with red hair and a big dream._

_(The boy’s hair was bright. The dream was brighter.)_

_The little boy’s name was RIN._

_(Now I know what you’re thinking: that’s a girl’s name. But whoever said your name defines who you are?)_

***

Sitting on a swivel chair with his ankle crossed over one knee, Rin grins up at Sousuke. “Who knew you’d turn out to be such a sap, huh?”

Sousuke resists the urge to tip the chair over, with Rin still seated on it. “You were gonna rub off on me sooner or later,” he grumbles, crossing his arms defensively over his chest. He’s aware the gesture doesn’t do him any favors, but there’s no point in trying to keep up appearances around Rin. They’ve known each other far too long for that.

Rin’s grin softens. “It’s really good,” he says. “Although,” his eyes sparkle, “I didn’t know you saw me that way.”

Sousuke blinks, hard, rubbing a hand over his face. “Rin, shut up,” and, under his breath, he adds, “shouldn’t have showed it to you.”

“Ah, c’mon,” Rin nudges Sousuke’s leg with his foot. The action disturbs the towel-turban wrapped around his head. “I’m glad you did. Are you going to have it published? You should. It’d make a great children’s book. Though, honestly? I’m famous enough already, without the publicity.”

“Yeah, okay, Mr. Famous,” Sousuke picks his clipboard off the dressing table. “You’ve got an interview with Nippon TV in, oh, five minutes from now? After you’re done with that? Shiba-san from Arena called back. He’d like to discuss possible contract details with you, whenever you’re free.”

“The swimwear company?” Rin unwraps his towel, rubbing it over his hair. “I thought they weren’t interested in hiring new models.”

Sousuke shrugs. “Apparently they changed their minds.” He winks in response to Rin’s dubious look. “Hey. Guess you made a _great impression_.”

“Ah, shut up, Sousuke,” Rin says, and glares. The glare’s intimidation factor is greatly reduced by his unmistakable blush.

The stylist bustles over, tossing Rin’s towel over the back of an empty chair and finger-combing through his hair before securing it into a low ponytail at the base of his neck. Sousuke watches the proceedings over his clipboard for several moments.

“Well, I guess I’ll leave you to it. See you outside, Rin,” he says as he makes a retreat to the door.

“Hey, Sousuke,” Rin calls as Sousuke is closing the door, “who’re you gonna have illustrate your story?”

The door closes with a slight snick. Sousuke can hear Rin’s muffled protest as it falls shut. He leans against the door, fingers still wrapped around the handle. It’d been a good question.

He really hadn’t considered it.

***

_A long yellow brick road stretched between the little boy and his dream. He had swim goggles in one hand, red shoes on his feet, a dog that would follow him anywhere._

_(But sometimes it seemed impossible, that he would ever cross it.)_

_Like everyone on a journey, the little boy met people along the way. Some he just passed by. Others joined him on his hero’s quest._

_(A cowardly lion. A tin boy with no heart. A wise scarecrow with straw for brains.)_

***

Sousuke gets called in to see an editor a month after he’d submitted his manuscript, on a breezy Wednesday afternoon in late March. Rin is at swim practice, and Sousuke’s already confirmed his end-of-week schedule, so he sends Rin a text explaining where he is going to be and takes the train down to the publishing company’s office, a copy of the manuscript tucked into the pocket of his greatcoat.

His editor is a middle-aged woman who looks like a librarian: hair pulled into a no-fuss bun, dark-rimmed glasses framing shrewd dark eyes. Her nametag identifies her as Inoue Misaki. When she offers Sousuke a cup of tea and her business card, her cardigan sleeve hitches up, and Sousuke catches sight of a tattoo on the inside of her forearm, before the sleeve falls back into place.

Sousuke ducks his head to hide his smile, and reminds himself not to put too much stock in initial appearances.

“It’s nice to meet you, Yamazaki-kun,” the editor says, over the rim of her teacup.

“Likewise, Inoue-san.”

“I’ve got your manuscript here,” Inoue-san continues. “I presume you have a copy?”

Sousuke nods and retrieves it from his coat.

“Before we begin going through this, I have a few general comments,” Inoue-san says, and the tone of her voice makes Sousuke’s stomach tie itself into knots. She must have hated it, he thinks.

“It’s a good story,” the editor proclaims, and the knots in Sousuke’s stomach loosen a little. “I assume it is your first attempt at really writing?” She smiles. “It isn’t perfect, of course, but between the two of us, we can turn it into something close to that. Your writing is a little rough around the edges, but I suppose it’s charming in its own way. As a reader, I can tell that it comes from your heart. That’s important in writing, just as in any creative pursuit.”

“Thank you,” Sousuke says.

“Good,” Inoue-san flips open her copy. “Then let’s begin. On page two –”

They discuss Sousuke’s story for the next half-hour, Sousuke following Inoue-san with a ballpoint pen, nodding when appropriate and making notes in the margins. Inoue-san is severe in her criticism – her no-nonsense appearance had hinted at that much at least – but Sousuke can tell she is fair, and very good at her job.

At half-past five, Inoue-san puts down her pen. “That’s all for today,” she says, “I’ll see you sometime next week, perhaps.”

“Thank you,” Sousuke says, standing up.

“Before you go,” Inoue-san calls, and Sousuke turns around to see her bend over and pull open a desk drawer. She hands him a sheet of paper with closely-typed font. “Here is a list of illustrators we often collaborate with. Look up their work, find something that you’re interested in.”

Sousuke accepts the paper with a bow and a smile. “About that,” he says, carefully putting the list away, “I’ve got an illustrator in mind. I’ll look through the list, though.”

“Ah, you already have someone?” It is difficult to discern the expression on Inoue-san’s face, so Sousuke settles for ‘tentatively pleased’. “Alright, have them get in touch with me, and I’ll work something out.”

***

_The little boy loved swimming with his entire being._

_(He swam like other people breathed.)_

_When he swam, the world seemed to slow down in a_ blue-water-hazelike coolness _enveloping him. Swimming was where he was alive._

_(Sometimes, what you love is also what takes everything away from you.)_

***

Makoto opens the door to the apartment with a sheepish smile. “Sorry for the wait,” he says. He is dressed to go out, in a coat and gloves with a scarf wrapped around his neck. “Haru-chan’s in the living room, go on in. I’m just stepping out to meet someone, so you’ll have the place to yourselves.”

Sousuke grins. “Out to see someone? – someone I know?”

“You might, actually,” Makoto says, pausing in the hall, “do you remember Hanamura Chigusa, Gou’s friend from high-school? Apparently she works at the training center I’m teaching at. Funny, isn’t it?”

“Yeah?” Sousuke claps him on the shoulder. “Good luck on your date.”

Makoto turns red. “It’s too early to call it a _date_ ,” he says, and escapes down the stairs before Sousuke can embarrass him further.

Sousuke yells, “you look great, don’t worry,” after him, just to get the last word in. He leaves his shoes by the welcome mat. His socks, he realizes, belatedly, don’t match; one is striped green-and-yellow, and the other is blue, and a little too small. It’s too late to worry about it, though, so he hangs up his coat before taking his manuscript into the living room.

The room is empty. Sousuke takes the opportunity to look around: at the green-blue sofas, the patterned rug, the framed pictures on the walls. Some are pastel, some are watercolor, and all depict water, in its varied forms. Waterfalls feature prominently. There is no sign of the gold medals won in London.

“They aren’t here,” a quiet, unassuming voice says from behind him, and Sousuke turns to find Haruka standing behind him, dressed in his usual ensemble of neutral-colored slacks and polo-shirt. Today, the shirt is a shade of teal. Sousuke would be flattered, if Haruka had known he was coming. In actuality, Haruka is just particular to shades of blue.

It’s been a while since he’s seen Haruka, Sousuke realizes. The last time had been at a mini-reunion last summer, after Rin got back from swimming the Pan Pacifics in Australia. Haruka hasn’t changed much, though – he never does. He’s like some sort of supernatural creature, a vampire, maybe, or a shapes-shifting merman, blessed with eternal youth, that sort of thing.

He is twenty-four years old, but he doesn’t look a day over eighteen, and he is wearing mismatched socks, one blue, and one striped green-and-yellow, which looks too big for him, the heel ballooning strangely around his ankle.

Sousuke clears his throat. “I’d wondered where my sock went to,” he says. “How long have you had it? Three years?”

“You can have it back, if you like,” Haruka says, impassively, and Sousuke shrugs, shaking his head.

“No, it’s – fine, I was just. Not too good at icebreakers, am I.”

Haruka crosses over to the sofa, sitting cross-legged on the cushions. He’s got a pencil tucked behind one ear, Sousuke notes, and there’s a thumbprint in what looks like paint at the corner of his mouth.

“I wasn’t aware there was any ice to break,” Haruka says, sounding vaguely bemused. “You can sit down, you know. The sofas don’t bite.”

Sousuke sits in the armchair next to him. He sets one ankle atop the other, and tries to look as though he isn’t uncomfortable.

“You’ve been avoiding me, haven’t you, Sousuke,” Haruka says, and Sousuke jumps at the use of his first name, though it isn’t the first time Haruka’s called him by it. They’d fallen into the habit when they were, by some stroke of fate, college roommates, and it isn’t as though they defaulted to surnames post-graduation, no matter how far and in between subsequent get-togethers were.

Briefly, Sousuke considers bluffing, but gives it up as a lost cause – he’s in too deep. “Where’re the medals?”

Haruka shrugs. “Somewhere they can’t hurt me.”

Sousuke decides to accept the statement at face value. “I’m sorry,” he says, “for avoiding you. It’s, well. I didn’t know what to say. ‘I understand’ doesn’t really feel … understanding.”

Haruka regards him with cool blue eyes. “But you do understand.” There’s an unspoken _you’re the only one who does_ that lingers in the air.

“I was never as close as you,” Sousuke tells him.

“Was it really that different, though?”

Sousuke considers it. Having victory snatched before you achieve it and after it is in your grasp are two inescapably different scenarios, at least, to his mind. A different kind of bitterness birthed, a different kind of coping mechanism required. He doesn’t want to argue with Haruka, though, because, fundamentally, what will he gain if he proves Haruka wrong? He taps his mismatched socks on the wooden floor.

“You know,” Haruka says suddenly, “sometimes I think it was the best possible outcome. That the dream wasn’t even mine to begin with – what right did I have to be a part of it, anyway.”

“Hey,” Sousuke says, and reaches out to maybe – pat his hand? – before retracting his fingers, “don’t say that. It was as much yours – ”

Haruka shakes his head. “It wasn’t,” he says, emphatic, and he lapses into an uncomfortable silence, during which Sousuke tries very hard not to count the seconds ticking by, and fails. A minute elapses before Haruka speaks again.

“You wanted something,” he says, as if he hadn’t just been almost-shouting.

(Granted, his voice hadn’t been _loud_ , per say, but Sousuke has only seen – heard – him so – insistent – on very few occasions.)

Sousuke meets his eyes, noting, for the first time, how _tired_ he looks. His ‘bottomless blue eyes’ Rin is so fond of elucidating are murky, like water that’s been stirred up, like a whirlpool, sucking Sousuke into its depths. Sousuke blinks, breaking the moment.

“Yeah, I – ” he reaches for the manuscript, holding it out, “ – I hoped you might draw something for me.”

Haruka takes it, ink-stained fingers closing around the spine. He props it open in his lap, uncrossing one leg so it is dangling over the sofa’s side, his toes braced against Sousuke’s shin. Sousuke is sure it’s an accident, but that doesn’t stop the wave of warmth that rushes over him.

“Oh,” Haruka says, voice soft. “This is Rin.” He looks up again, holds Sousuke’s gaze. Sousuke imagines a little ray of light bursting across his irises.

Sousuke nods. He clears his throat. “Yeah,” he says. “It is.”

***

_And so it happened that the little boy grew into a MAN. Like all heroes, he faced many obstacles along the way._

_(The loss of his friends. Loneliness. A wavering of heart.)_

_The yellow brick road grew no shorter. Some days, he thought it would never end._

_(What if some goals are unattainable?)_

***

“I think,” Haruka said, “I’d like to work in watercolor and ink,” and so he had.

There’s something magical about watercolor, Sousuke thinks, as he picks up a page off Haruka’s desk, the paper rustling between his fingers. He traces the stark white highlights in Rin’s hair, the soft blend of color in the sky. Sousuke smiles, suddenly.

“What’s so funny?” Haruka asks, looking up at Sousuke from his chair.

“I was just thinking,” Sousuke says, “how this coloring is so much like Rin: soft and sharp all at once. The contrast is amazing.” He looks down at Haruka, at the muted dark shadows around his eyes, the red of his mouth against his skin.  “You’re like that, too.”

Haruka says, “thank you,” wryly, as if he isn’t sure if he’s been complimented, or not.

Sousuke places the illustration back on Haruka’s desk.

“You’ve gotten better,” he comments, offhand, prompting a raised eyebrow.

“What do you mean? Since my days of drawing mermen in physics class? Art is an evolving process, Yamazaki, just like swimming. You don’t _attain_ perfection.”

“Whoa,” Sousuke holds up his hands. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Haruka says, brushing masking fluid onto his paper, and Sousuke, slack-jawed, thinks, _the little_ –

And then Haruka says, “thank you for letting me do this,” and Sousuke – mentally – lowers his head into hands because _talk about mixed signals_.

“You can sit down, you know.” Haruka looks half-exasperated, half-anxious, his mouth an uncertain moue. Sousuke swallows.

“I – actually have to leave, now.,” he says, “I’ll come back some other time. Thank you.”

“Okay,” Haruka says. Sousuke wonders if he is imagining the disappointment in Haruka’s voice, projecting his own –

He picks his coat off the stand and leaves the apartment before he says – or does – something incredibly stupid.

“You seem really preoccupied lately,” Rin says, several days later, over his May issue of _Swimming Monthly_. “Everything okay?”

Sousuke looks up, distractedly, from the itinerary he is planning out for Rin’s Russia trip, and the World Aquatics. “Everything’s fine.”

“You’re a really bad liar, Yamazaki Sousuke,” Rin murmurs, loud enough for Sousuke to hear – and ignore.

He goes back to Haruka’s apartment that evening. Makoto opens the door, once again dressed to go out, this time in a stylish pale-green button-down and brown trousers, sharply creased. His shoes are brown, too, and polished to a mirror-like shine.

“Can I call it a date now?” Sousuke asks as Makoto leaves.

“Only if I can call what _you_ do here pining,” Makoto says at the top of the stairwell. “Hint for the risk-takers, Yamazaki-kun: Haru-chan’s about as subtle as a train-wreck. He doesn’t get vague signals, okay?”

“Thanks, Makoto, you’re an angel,” Sousuke grumbles at him. He gets a cheery wave in reply, and the faint sound of Makoto calling, “gotta be direct now,” from the bottom of the stairs. Sousuke rolls his eyes.

Today, Haruka is already in the living room, seated at his desk. He’s got another, smaller table set up, with the finished pages arranged on the surface.

“You’ve got really bad posture; you’re going to end up hurting yourself,” Sousuke observes; Haruka is practically hunched over the desk.

“I’m almost done,” Haruka says by way of reply, and he gives Sousuke a little smile over his shoulder. He’s got paint thumb-print by his mouth again, and what looks a pen mark on one cheek. The culprit is a ballpoint balanced behind his ear.

Carefully, Sousuke removes the pen, setting it down on the desk. He pulls up a chair and sits down, backward, his chin resting on the back. Haruka shifts, revealing the painting. Sousuke’s breath catches in his throat.

“W- wow, Haru,” he breathes, “that’s – _incredible_.”

Rin’s face looks out at them from the paper, rendered in remarkably realistic detail. Sousuke can see the sparkle in his eyes, imagine the slow up quirk of the corner of his mouth. The colors bleed into the background, so a sea of white encompasses Rin – as if he is, quite literally, materializing from light.

Sousuke emerges from his momentary daze to find Haruka staring up at him. He is a study in color: black and pale and blotchy with red and green and blue, as if he’d been painting himself as much as Rin.

“Haru,” Sousuke begins. He stops and swallows. “Haru, I – ” Sousuke isn’t _eloquent_ in the best of times, and now, words seem to have failed him completely. _As subtle as a train wreck_ , Makoto had said, and, perhaps? It might just work out better for Sousuke this way. After all, he isn’t very good at being subtle himself.

“You’ve – you’ve got paint on your mouth,” Sousuke says, and: carefully, he reaches out. Swipes his thumb across Haruka’s bottom lip, which gives way under the pressure of his finger. In the moment Sousuke leans in, their knees knocking, Haruka’s eyes widen, lashes fluttering, eyes dropping to Sousuke’s mouth – just before Sousuke squeezes his shut, fingers cupping Haruka’s jaw.

The kiss is chaste, gentle: the press of Sousuke’s closed lips against the seam of Haruka’s. He tastes paint and residual lip balm.

Haruka shudders against him, and Sousuke backtracks; he begins to pull back – _oh shit; I’ve fucked up_ – when Haruka’s hands slide up Sousuke’s shoulders, insistent, thumbs grazing Sousuke’s cheekbones, calloused fingers curling into Sousuke’s hair. He _sighs_ , a little breath, cool air playing across Sousuke’s face, mouth loosening. His teeth sink, with the slightest amount of pressure, into Sousuke’s lip.

Sousuke shivers.

***

_The MAN lost sight of his goal, the coveted end of the yellow brick road. He succumbed to the blackness within him. Lost and alone, he wandered, aimlessly, like a living ghost._

_(It is a terrible thing, to lose oneself. To be unable to find it again.)_

_But then the tin boy – who was now a TIN MAN – who did not have a heart discovered that he did, in fact, have one: the heart of the MAN who was once a little boy named RIN. And now he had to find it: the heart, and bring back the MAN called RIN from the brink of darkness._

_(The TIN MAN with no heart found he could be determined. The COWARDLY LION could be brave. The BRAINLESS SCARECROW was the wisest of them all.)_

_(Together, they were truly strong.)_

***

There are copies of the book in the Haneda airport’s bookstore: a paperback volume with glossy double-sided pages in full color.

RIN

as told by  
Yamazaki Sousuke and Nanase Haruka

(Inside, each of their dedications is several lines long.)

In the café next to the bookstore – a stone’s throw away from the arrivals gate –

Nagisa munches on a chocolate-covered hi-hat cupcake, frosting decorating his face. Rei is at his shoulder, attempting to persuade him to _use a napkin_ to _wipe away that mess, Nagisa-kun_.

On their other side, Makoto is seated at one of the café tables, smiling at his phone screen. Chigusa-chan must’ve sent him a nice message. In the next seat, Gou is reading RIN, attempting to ignore the antics of her husband and brother-in-law, who are trying to persuade Nitori into cartwheeling across the café floor. The instigator, Haruka notes idly, is actually the younger Mikoshiba, relentless in his teasing; the elder interjects with an occasional comment, punctuated with a broad smile.

Gou closes her book, slamming it onto the plastic table. Haruka winces. “Alright, that’s _enough_ ,” she says, “Aii, go sit with Haruka-senpai. Sei-chan, Momo, _behave_. I’m meant to be becoming a mother of _one_ , not three. For heaven’s sake.” She crosses her arms and frowns thunderously till her orders are obeyed.

A hush descends upon the table in the wake of her anger, lasting till Makoto clears his throat and says, “ahem. So, in Russia, Rin placed gold in butterfly and silver in free, isn’t that right? And between them Team Japan’s got ten medals. I’m sure the press will swarm them as soon as they arrive through the gate.”

“Well, we’ll just have to storm ‘em before they get here,” Seijuurou Mikoshiba says with exaggerated aplomb. Across the table, his wife rolls her eyes, but the look seems fond, if anything. “But remember, where there’s press, there’s security. Hopefully there won’t be much of a hold-up.”

Haruka leans his head against his hand, eyes fixed on the gate. Any minute now, he thinks.

“Just got through customs,” Seijuurou hoists up his phone, scrolling through the message he’s just received. “They’ll be here soon.”

Sure enough, a minute later, a security guard begins ushering passengers through the gate. Several salary-men, families, people who look like they’re diplomats. The waiting crowd swells. Around the corner, Team Japan appear, smiling and waving, drawing their suitcases behind them.

Haruka thrills with anticipation, scanning the members for – there! A redhead, in uniform, followed closely by a dark-haired man in a suit and tie. Airport security is tight around the group; members are carefully funneled off to waiting family members.

Rin and Sousuke approach, Sousuke’s hand resting on Rin’s shoulder. They stop for a moment; Sousuke scans the crowd, and catches sight of Momo waving exuberantly from atop the table, on which he is now standing. Gou has given up trying to get him to come down; instead, she, too, is waving at her brother, who lights up when he sees her, and practically jogs over, weaving through the crowd. Sousuke, left to deal with the luggage, follows at a more sedate pace.

Rin sweeps Gou up, holding her up, cheek pressed against hers. When he puts her down she throws her arms around him – and is immediately joined by the Mikoshiba brothers and Nagisa (with Rei and Aii carried into their midst), in an impromptu group hug.

“Not going to hug him?” Sousuke asks, leaning the carry-ons against the café table.

Haruka says, “there’ll be plenty of time, later.”

“Yeah?” Sousuke grins down at him. “What about me?”

Haruka pats the bench next to him. “Unless you want to sweep me up like Rin did Gou, you’re going to have to sit down,” he says, unable to keep the amusement from his voice.

Leaning his forehead against Haruka’s, Sousuke says, “why’d you assume I don’t want to _sweep you up_?”

Haruka slips his arms around Sousuke’s neck, fingers sliding through his close-cropped dark hair.

“Oh, really?” Haruka says against Sousuke’s lips, and feels Sousuke grin, mouth curving upward against his as he is hoisted into the air.

***

_He stood in front of the crowd, with his trophy held high, the medal around his neck heavy on his chest_

_And he knew that his Victory wasn’t the achievement of a single race but a LIFETIME of races, one after the other, winning and losing. The winning was bright, and the losing was dark, but after every race there was another one, on and on till he could no longer swim, no longer fight:_

_(But for now, he was home.)_

_(RIN, WINNER)_

***

 

 

 

 

end.

***

 

**Omake:**

“I made Sousuke tell me,” Rin announces, peevishly, in the car. He’s got his arms crossed over his chest; his expression is mutinous. “What the hell, getting up to something like this without me?”

Sousuke, behind the wheel, shoots him an incredulous look through the rearview mirror. “You specifically said you didn’t want to get  _tangled up_  with anyone till after the Rio Olympics! You were the one made up your mind – ”

“Well, I’m changing my mind,” Rin growls, and reaches for Haruka, cradling his head between long, roughened fingers.

Sousuke clears his throat. Rin shoots him a scowl and the finger. “Drive, Yamazaki,” he says, “the sooner you get us home the sooner you can join this party.”

(Needless to say, Sousuke drove.)

**Author's Note:**

> okay i lied  
> this is souharurin and i'm trash  
> /sobs


End file.
